It was not the warning note
of a fog, nor the sharp course-signal for the guidance of a passing
ship, but a sustained trumpeting, which announced to any steamer hidden
in the darkening waste of waters that the _Kansas_ was not under
control. It was a wild, sinister appeal for help, the voice of the
disabled vessel proclaiming her need; and the answer seemed to come in
a fiercer shriek of the gale, while the added fury of the blast brought
a curling sea over the poop. The _Kansas_ staggered and shook herself
clear. The wave smashed its way onward; several iron stanchions
snapped with reports like pistol-shots, and there was an intolerable
rending of woodwork. But, whatever the damage, the powerful hull rose
triumphantly from the clutch of its assailant. Shattered streams of
water poured off the decks like so many cascades. Loud above the
splash of these miniature cataracts vibrated the tense boom of the
fog-horn.
It was a nerve-racking moment. It demanded the leadership of a strong
man, and there are few gatherings in Anglo-Saxondom which cannot
produce a Caesar when required.
Pages:
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55